E535 
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IC-NRLF 


OF  THi 

UNIVERSITY 
CF 


OCCASIONAL    THOUGHTS, 


IN    VERSE. 


BY     WILLIAM    D.    EMERSON, 


SPRINGFIELD,  0.  i 

PUBLISHED     BY     GEO.     D.     EMERSON     it    CO. 

1851  . 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  is  a  selection  from  a  variety  of  articles,  with 
which  the  author  has  amused  his  leisure  moments,  snatched  from 
the  last  fifteen  years  of  severe  physical  and  intellectual  labor. 
They  were  written  substantially  at  the  times  indicated,  and  all  of 
them,  except  a  few  at  the  close  of  the  volume,  have  been  kept 
more  than  the  "nine  years."  Some  have  been  already  published 
in  periodicals,  but  the  author  is  not  conscious  of  having  bored 
the  Editorial  corps  very  often  with  his  trifles.  Whatever  opinion 
may  be  formed  of  their  merits,  he  can  truly  say,  thai  their  com 
position  has  cheered  many  a  weary  hour  of  his  life.  Should 
their  perusal  produce  the  same  effect  on  the  mind  of  a  single 
reader,  the  author  will  think  their  publication  not  altogether  in 
vain. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

A  Dawn  in  Winter, __85 

A  Rhapsody, -100 

A  Summer  Day  in  the  Woods,  _  _ .  -  - 101 

A  Site  for  a  Seminary, 70 

A  Peep  through  the  Backwoods, 67 

Athens,  Ohio, --32 

Evening  Stanzas, 11 

E  vening, 78 

Faith, --12 

Fashionable  Literature, 75 

Freedom, 79 

Hill  Scene, 87 

Humility, 90 

Hymn  beneath  Dawalageri, 

I'm  all  alone,_' 29 

La  Belle  Riviere, 40 

Life, 74 

Lines  written  in  an  Album, _  _  1 4 

Marietta, --16 

My  Pocket  Bible, 53- 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Frances  Price, --95 

Schoolhouse  Stanzas, 38 

Stanzas, __22 

Stanzas, -  — 35 


CONTENTS. 

•  Page. 

Stanzas, 83 

Sun  shine, 20 

Teacher's  Melody, 45 

The  Consumptive, 59 

The  Explosion, 55 

The  Hills, 58 

The  Invitation, 81 

The  Old  Town  Clock, 97 

The  Rich, . 47 

The  Schoolmaster, 50 

The  West, 88 

To  a  Locust  Tree, 64 

To  the  Ohio  River, 17 

To  the  Woods,.  __24 


Co   tfcr 


(B  IT  nil  glorious  Sky!  along  thy  dizzy  height 

How  sparkling  planets  do  delight  to  rove, 
And  wink  at  feeble  mortals,  when  the  night 

Invites  them  out  to  wonder  and  to  love. 
There  solemn  grandeur  walks  serene  above, 

And  calls  each  floating  world  of  light  its  own; 
And  there  benevolence,  celestial  dove, 

Is  hovering  o'er  the  waters,  where  alone 
The  Almighty  maker  builds  his  everlasting  throne. 

Window  of  heaven !  through  which  the  royal  sun 

Shines  on  the  earth,  that  in  his  radiance  glows ; 
From  his  fair  front  what  streams  of  glory  run, 

And  from  his  eye  what  lightning  fire  he  throws ! 
Then  kindles  life,  and  into  beauty  grows. 

How  beauteous  then  thine  own  transparent  blue ! 
So  mild  and  modest ;  not  the  violet  knows 

More  modesty  than  thou,  whene'er  thy  hue 
Is  calm  and  cloudless  bright — and  how  majestic,  too  ! 


TO    THE    SKY. 

And  thoii  art  heaven's  laboratory,  where 

The  elements  are  compounded,  and  the  dread 
Voice  of  the  thunder  hurries  from  their  lair 

The  savage  tempests,  quickening  e'en  the  dead 
The  battle  clouds  in  quick  array  are  spread, 

While  roars  the  trumpet  of  the  storm,  and  flee 
The  arrowy  lightnings  on  from  bed  to  bed 

Of  mists  contending  like  a  mighty  sea; 
The  cloud-shot  dashing  down  from  heaven's  artillery. 

But  see  that  venerable  oak,  that  bends, 

Not  to  the  wintry  storm,  nor  hurricane; 
How  trembles  it  before  a  power  that  rends 

Its  massy  trunk  in  splinters;  and  the  rain 
Doth  moisten  now  its  broken  limbs  in  vain. 

And  one  great  family  in  ruin  lies, 
The  growth  of  centuries;  the  forest  plain 

Beholds  its  pride  a  carcase,  and  the  prize 
Of  one  resistless  flash,  that  dazzles  while  it  dies. 

Thou  art  the  same  blue  sky  forever,  while 

Th'  Almighty  holds  thee  in  His  nursing  hand; 
No  tempest  leaves  thy  stately  dome  a  pile 

Of  crumbling  ruins,  nor  thy  sacred  band 
Of  flashing  stars,  to  grim  decay's  command. 

The  moon  rides  gaily  still  her  circuit  round, 
And  nightly  watches  o'er  the  sleeping  land; 

The  roving  comets,  visiting  thy  bound, 
Dare  not  disturb  the  scene,  nor  raise  one  rebel  soun 


TO    THE    SKY.  g 

But  yet  thou  changest  countenance,  and  now 

I  see  the  gathering  clouds  can  make  thee  pale; 
Then  anger  sits  upon  thy  darkening  brow, 

And  frowns  that  make  the  sailor's  heart  to  quail; 
While  o'er  the  sea  each  wild  unfettered  gale, 

Fresh  from  its  prison,  pours  a  freeman's  song; 
The  ships  that  proudly  walked  the  sea  bewail 

Their  shattered  limbs,  while  waves  in  armies  throng, 
And  march  to  music  dire,  the  trembling  shores  along. 

Yet  even  when  thy  features  are  severe, 

How  bounteous  thou!  upon  the  thirsty  earth 
Descends  a  storm  of  blessings;  far  and  near 

A  million  plants  are  springing  into  birth, 
Where  yesterday  there  reigned  the  sickly  dearth; 

The  fields  smile  sweetly,  robed  in  gentle  green; 
The  freshened  air  is  full  of  songs  and  mirth, 

And  straggling  vapors  round  that  mount  are  seen, 

That  looked  upon  the  storm  with  majesty  serene. 

I 

Map  of  the  Universe !  where  man  may  view 

Those  climes  he  may  not  travel;  which  the  tread 
Of  fancy  reaches  not;  a  scattering  few 

Parts  of  a  drop  on  ocean's  boundless  bed, 
There  flows  the  milky  River,  that  has  fed 

Unnumbered  systems  with  its  living  light; 
But  o'er  those  trackless  highways  who  has  sped? 

Those  unknown  paths  that  mock  an  angel's  sight, 
And  guide  from  world  to  world  the  cornet's  eagle  flight. 


TO     THE    SKY. 

Thou  art  a  brilliant  canvas,  where  are  spread 

Aurora's  golden  tints, — oh  wonder,  Art! 
Upon  the  gazing  clouds  are  softly  shed 

Such  lovely  hues;  while  ruddy  heralds  start 
From  the  sun's  kingly  chariot, — now  they  part, 

Bearing  from  one  red  center,  each  his  way, 
Over  thine  azure  plain;  earth's  children  start 

In  ecstacy  from  sleep,  as  though  the  day 
Would  bring  the  Heavens  down  to  dwell  in  realms  of  clay. 

And  there  is  pictured  evening,  pensive  maid, 

Sitting  upon  the  western  clouds  in  splendor; 
The  modest  blush  upon  her  cheek  has  paid 

The  warm  adieu  of  Phoebus;  oh  how  tender 
Those  beams  that  dazzled  noonday! — he  must  render 

His  throne  unto  the  fair,  but  colder  moon; 
But  e'en  that  robe  of  white  the  Sun  doth  lend  her, 

And  though  he  hides  himself  from  earth  so  soon, 
He  sends  her  silver  rays,  and  she  reflects  the  boon. 

Thou  lookest  down  from  yonder  lofty  towers, 

Upon  the  earth,  with  all  thy  million  eyes; 
Silent  spectator!     Guardian  of  the  hours! 

Marking  each  scene  as  whirlingly  it  flies : 
Field,  forest,  ocean,  land,  before  thee  lies; 

Hindoo  or  Greenlander  looks  up  to  thee, 
The  same  blue  heaven;  untrodden  mountains  rise 

In  vain  to  reach  thy  border;  how  can  we 
Search  out  thy  wonders,  then,  home  of  eternity? 


dt>|f  Him!   when  sunset's  hectic  flush 
The  day's  declining  glory  lightens, 

And  Nature's  loveliest  colors  rush, 

To  deck  the  smile  that  dying  brightens. 

Oh  come!  when  every  breeze  is  still, 
And  every  leaf  is  calmly  sleeping; 

And  yonder  sky,  whose  eyelids  fill 
With  dewy  tears,  is  gently  weeping. 

Oh  come!  when  forest  songsters'  notes 
Grow  plaintive  as  their  lays  are  dying, 

And  many  a  golden  vapor  floats 

Around  the  couch  where  twilight 's  lying. 

Oh  come!  and  teach  thy  heart  to  burn 
For  angel  wings,  to  heaven  darting, 

And  bid  thy  softened  spirit  learn 

To  take  from  earth  so  sweet  a  parting. 


/uttl). 


9  SHIH  a  father  swim  the  wave, 
Beneath  each  billow  yawned  a  grave — 

Each  billow  seemed  a  wreck. 
Oh,  calm  the  eye  of  yonder  child ! 
He  gazed  upon  the  storm,  and  smiled ; 

He  clasped  a  father's  neck ! 

I  saw  a  sailor,  on  a  ship, 

He  watched  the  plunging  vessel  dip — 

A  deadly  rock  before  : 
"  Were  I  the  one  to  guide  the  helm, 
The  rock  would  crash,  the  ocean  whelm — 

Our  pilot  knows  the  shore." 

I  saw  a  soldier  in  the  field, 

His  foes  what  fearful  weapons  wield ! 

Yet  fights  he  boldly  on : 
"  My  captain  's  coming  with  his  troop, 
He  '11  make  their  haughty  banners  droop, 

And  then  the  victory 's  won." 


FAITH. 

I  saw  a  traveller  on  the  sand, 

No  shrub  or  spring  o'er  all  the  land — 

All  is  one  pebbly  sea ; 
And  yet  his  eye  is  clear  and  bright, 
A  caravan  is  just  in  sight, 

Why  should  he  fearful  be  ? 

I  saw  the  man  of  faith — the  storm 
Of  death  beat  round  his  wasted  form, 

But  moved  him  not  a  hair ! 
He  raised  to  Heaven  a  trusting  glance, 
"  I  love  thy  kind  Omnipotence, 
My  Father,  every  where." 

MARIETTA    1836. 


inrs  written  in  an 


IS  life  is  but  a  morning  dream, 
'Tis  full  of  woe,  'tis  full  of  glee; 
The  darkest  night  has  some  gay  beam, 
A  shadow  follows  every  gleam, 
Yet  be  the  vision  sweet  to  thee ! 

This  life  is  like  a  mountain  rill, 

Whose  rippling  waters  haste  to  flee; 

Young  Hope  is  dancing  to  its  trill; 

May  Memory's  silver  fountain  fill 
A  cup  of  purest  joy  for  thee! 

This  life  is  like  a  sunset  cloud, 

Uprising  from  a  boundless  sea; 
Now  wrapt  in  misery's  purple  shroud, 
And  now  in  rainbow  glories  proud — 
Its  brightest  glories  shine  on  thee! 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    AN    ALBUM. 

This  life  is  like  the  vernal  song, 

That  rings  from  yonder  flowering  tree; 
It  tells  of  one  who  sails  erelong 
Where  richer  strains  and  flowers  belong — 
That  heavenly  music  flows  for  thee. 

Life  is  the  Evening  Beauty's  swell; 

It  wakes  the  sinking  day  to  see; 
As  if  to  bid  the  Sun  farewell, 
And  catch  the  twilight's  holy  spell, — 

'T  is  sad  to  say  farewell  to  thee. 

Thy  life  be  like  thy  calm  blue  eye, 

Thy  flowing  form,  thy  smile  so  free; 
If  thou  look  brightest  at  the  sky, 
That  smile  in  death  shall  scarcely  die, 
And  death  itself  be  life  to  thee. 

There  is  another  life — prepare; — 

A  friend  in  need — oh  bow  the  knee ! 
When  thy  freed  spirit  cuts  the  air, 
'T  will  find  some  sister  angel  there, 
To  ope  the  gates  of  heaven  to  thee. 

INDIANA,  1837. 


15 


^Marietta. 


,  where  two  meeting  rivers  fringe  the  plain, 
O'er  which  the  semicircling  green  hills  tower, 
The  Pioneer  city  stands;  its  streets  a  chain 

In  graceful  folds,  of  cottage,  tree  and  flower. 
Here  Learning  loves  to  build  her  shady  bower, 

And,  like  a  magnet,  draws  the  mind  from  far, 
Giving  that  mind  its  own  magnetic  power, 

Freighting  the  mental  and  the  moral  car, 
And  sprinkling  all  the  West  with  many  a  radiant  star. 

1836. 


to  iljf  ©I)i0  Btmr. 


(B ft  Bit  of  Rivers !  when  thy  infant  rill 

Was  yet  upon  its  mother  mountain,  say, 
Who  fixed  for  aye  thy  hesitating  will — 

Why  to  the  East  did'st  thou  not  dance  thy  way. 
And  o'er  the  precipices  waste  thy  spray  ? 

He  who  created  man,  commissioned  thee, 
And  sent  thee  forth  to  work  thy  bed  of  clay, 

And  bear  thy  load  of  waters,  pure  and  free, 
Until  their  wealth  is  stored  in  the  unbounded  sea. 

The  earth  has  mightier  streams :  old  Amazon 

Comes  like  a  Titan  down  from  Andes'  height — 
The  brimming  Nile  a  longer  track  has  gone — 

St.  Lawrence  thunders  louder;  and  the  flight 
Of  wild  Missouri,  how  untired  and  bright ! 

THOU  art  the  majesty  of  loveliness ;  thy  steam 
Is  an  unfaltering  thunder ;  and  the  night 

Brings  on  thy  garden  banks  the  sweetest  gleam 
That  Cynthia's  orb  can  lend  to  Nature's  loveliest  dream. 


TO    THE    OHIO    RIVER. 

But  thou  art  not  all  made  of  dreams;  the  day 

Shows  thee  more  beautiful  than  night,  and  morn 
Wakes  thy  calm  features,  exquisitely  gay, 

While  heaven  sits  on  thy  canvas,  newly  born. 
And  when  from  thine  embrace  the  sun  is  torn, 

He  wraps  thee  with  a  sheet  of  saffron  fire; 
The  kneeling  trees  with  deeper  fringe  adorn 

Thy  placid  marge;  and  clad  in  gold  attire, 
Day  sees  himself  in  thee,  and  bows  him  to  expire. 

Overflowing  Autumn  makes  thee  all  alive 

With  floating  granaries,  and  swifter  barks, 
Those  winged  palaces,  for  victory  strive, 

Whose  morning  voice  is  hoarser  than  the  lark's; 
They  stir  thy  face  to  anger,  but  the  marks 

Of  wrath  are  quickly  washed  away;  the  shore 
Receives  a  gentle  beating,  while  the  sparks 

Of  fancy's  fire  are  flying  gaily  o'er 
Thy  ripples,  and  thy  face  grows  brighter  than  before. 

A  century  ago — and  what  wast  thou? 

The  red  man  chased  the  wild  ox  o'er  the  wild; 
The  birch  canoe  was  then  thine  only  plough, 

And  Navigation  was  an  unformed  child; 
The  Indian  war-whoop  woke  thy  slumbers  mild; 

Thou  wert  a  giant  beauty,  in  the  robe 
Of  untamed  nature;  cities  had  not  smiled 

On  blooming  farms,  and  Sol  could  scarcely  probe 
The  forest,  while  he  bathed  in  thee  his  golden  globe. 


TO    THE    OHIO    RIVER. 


19 


I  love  thee,  radiant  stream!  thy  banks  are  free; 

The  Pioneer  has  tinged  with  thee  his  soul; 
His  bold  and  steady  mind  doth  image  thee; 

Those  waters  which  have  borne  him  to  the  goal 
Of  his  far  reaching  enterprise,  shall  roll 

Forever  past  his  grave,  to  History  dear; 
Thy  bells  of  Commerce  o'er  his  sod  shall  toll, 

But  not  the  notes  of  woe ;  his  spirit's  here, 
And  walks  the  richest  fields,  when  Spring  renews  the  year. 

The  torrent  is  the  tyrant  Anarchy; 

It  wars  through  fortresses  of  famine,  where 
Rocks  are  the  only  dwellings;  is  it  free? 

Passion,  not  reason,  is  the  sovereign  there; 
Who  would  be  safe,  at  distance  let  him  stare. 

Thy  features  with  serenest  beauty  glow; 
As  some  vast  planet  through  the  boundless  air, 

Thou  flowest  nobly  on;  thy  waters  know 
Their  track  sublime,  and  forth  in  even  grandeur  flow. 

Thy  years  shall  number  on,  till  Time  doth  kindle 

To  all  devouring  flame;  and  aged  Earth 
Burn  whirlingly  upon  her  polar  spindle; 

Her  mountains  melt  to  fire;  her  ocean  girth 
Expand  to  scorching  steam,  and  bursting  forth 

From  its  creation  grave,  the  granite  fly — 
A  world  of  atoms — and  a  newer  birth 

Spring  out  of  chaos;  then,  when  Death  must  die, 
Shall  this  immortal  soul  look  where  thou  wast  and  sigh. 


;?tt  the  sky  is  mild  and  blue, 
And  the  light  drops  down  like  dew, 

I  will  sit  me  'neath  the  shade, 
And  look  out  upon  the  glade. 
How  blessed  the  shine, 
To  the  sheep  and  the  kine; 
To  the  dropsical  plant, 
To  the  architect  ant; 
To  the  farmer  in  the  weeds, 
To  the  gardener  with  his  seeds, 
To  the  starving  washerwoman, 
To  the  harvest  gathering  yeoman; 
To  the  sailor  on  the  sea, 
To  the  dreamer  like  of  me; 
To  the  buoyant-souled  equestrian, 
To  the  landless  gay  pedestrian, 


SUNSHINE. 

Who  looks  on  all, 
With  the  eye  of  one, 

Who  can  dare  to  call 
The  world  his  own; 
For  all  mankind  are  brothers, 
And  what  is  one  man's  is  another's, 
The  vast  estate  of  one  Kind  Sire; 
The  Sun  is  but  a  family  fire! 

INDIANA,  1837. 


$  t  a  n  3  a 


mountain  goat  is  on  the  rock, 
Where  man  ne'er  trod,  and  cannot  tread; 
What  landscapes  on  his  vision  break! 

What  grandeur  bows  beneath  his  head! 
And  I  could  wish  that  I  were  there, 
To  melt  in  rapture,  rise  in  prayer. 

A  bird  is  on  the  sunny  cloud, 

The  blooming  world  is  spread  below, 
And  all  enwrapt  with  silver  shroud, 

Hills,  vales,  and  cities  brightly  glow; 
He  seems  an  angel  in  his  flight, 
Why  have  I  not  his  wings  of  light? 

The  whale  ploughs  up  a  sea  of  ice, 

Searches  the  gardens  of  the  deep; 
And  there  are  gems  beyond  all  price, 

O'er  which  the  seasnakes  idly  creep; 
Where  man  may  sink  mid  ocean's  fern, 
But  whence  he  never  may  return. 


STANZAS.  23 

The  little  drop  of  rain  may  pierce 
Earth's  bosom  to  its  rocky  core, 
And  see  awake  the  earthquakes  fierce, 
That  snatch  the  city  from  the  shore; 
Science  would  throw  ^way  her  pride, 
And  in  that  fragile  vessel  glide. 

The  white  bear  walks  the  Pole  alone, 

To  him  the  blasts  are  gentle  breezes; 
Where  man  in  furs  would  turn  to  stone, 

He  knows  not  that  it  even  freezes; 
Could  Ross  put  on  his  frame  of  brass, 
He  soon  would  find  the  Northwest  pass. 

And  there  are  thousand  things  that  live, 
Where  man  would  give  his  life  to  go; 
And  theories  and  dreams  must  weave, 

Because  he  cannot,  cannot  know; 
He  should  rejoice,  the  world's  so  full 
That  all  its  flowers  he  cannot  cull. 

INDIANA,  1837. 


€0  tlje  IU00&5. 


l  Ulimfrs!  the  leafy  covering  of  the  Earth, 

Guarding  from  Summer's  heat  and  Winter's  cold; 
Save  where  the  white  bear  quaffs  his  vigorous  mirth, 

Amid  the  icy  mountains  bright  and  bold; 

The  parasols  that  May  and  June  unfold; 
The  furs  of  temperate  climes  that  shed  the  storm; 

The  green  robes  of  the  Past,  that  ne'er  grow  old; 
'Tis  yours  to  keep  the  soul  of  Nature  warm, 
To  throw  the  charms  of  health  and  beauty  o'er  her  form. 

The  woods — the  pastures  where  the  Indian  roved; 

As  homeless  as  the  deer,  or  buffalo; 
And  as  they  changed  their  country,  so  he  changed, 

Still  going  where  his  untamed  herd  would  go, 

Through  marshes  where  the  ranks  of  Cypress  grow,, 
Or  ever  verdant  meadows  of  the  cane, 

Or  up  the  hills  where  weaker  forests  bow, 

Or  where  the  cotton-woods  embower  the  plain; 

Ye  were  his  fenceless  farm,  but  ne'er  shall  be  again. 


TO    THE    WOODS.  25 

He's  gone — far  driven  toward  the  rocky  West; 

In  other  wilds  he  hears  the  panther's  scream; 
The  grisly  bear  comes  growling  on  his  rest, 

And  eyes  of  other  deer  yet  mildly  gleam; 

Oh!  does  he  of  his  long  lost  country  dream? 
His  own,  his  father's  wrongs  yet  wake  the  fire, 

Revenge  alone  can  quench?  or  does  the  beam 
From  Calvary's  Sun  melt  down  his  fiercer  ire, 
To  love  for  paler  sons  of  his  Eternal  Sire? 

Ye  vast  republics!  ever  firm  and  free; 

Children  of  Time!  that  slow,  but  surely  rise; 
Long  centuries  rear  up  the  giant  tree; 

Like  noble  souls,  it  emulates  the  skies; 

Beneath,  the  plant  of  groveling  spirit  lies, 
Content  to  borrow  from  its  mighty  shade; 

The  vigorous  sapling,  as  the  patriarch  dies, 
Lifts  to  the  Sun  of  glory  its  green  head, 
And  feeds  on  rays  intense  which  once  its  parent  fed. 

As  'neath  their  boughs,  a  pigmy  form,  I  rove, 
They  seem  so  many  pillars  of  the  sky; 

The  clouds  are  resting  on  their  tops  above; 
And  birds,  like  angels,  lighting  from  on  high, 
Heaven's  hymns  rehearse,  or  on  it's  errands  fly; 

While  breezes  whisper  softly  through  the  trees, 
And  scattered  gleams  the  dewy  branches  dry; 

Cheering  each  opening  flower  that  gently  heaves, 
And  mingling  that  rich  cup  the  wandering  bee  receives. 


TO    THE     WOODS. 

Zephyr  awakes  a  little  world  of  sails, 

And  bids  them  revel  in  his  rich  perfume; 
Myriads  of  insect  voyagers  bless  the  gales, 

And  fatten  on  the  fast  reviving  bloom; 

Nor  think  how  soon  their  world  shall  be  their  tomb 
The  smallest  leaf  that  falls  destroys  a  race; 

An  Autumn  makes  an  Universe  of  gloom! 
Oh  could  our  eyes  each  scene  of  ruin  trace, 
How  we  would  think  the  earth  was  but  a  burial  place ! 

But  when  the  autumn  has  disrobed  each  limb, 

And  laid  it  bare  to  wintry  sleet  and  snow, 
And  light  comes  through  the  thicket  cold  and  dim, 

And  hurricanes  their  fearful  furrows  plough, 

How  meekly  to  adversity  ye  bow ! 
Ye  know  that  flowers  will  bloom  above  the  dead, 

And  bid  frail  man  be  ready,  even  now, 
For  that  great  change,  which  may  exalt  his  head, 
Above  the  clouds  that  o'er  the  forests  make  their  bed. 

Ye  tuneful  woods!  ye  love  the  joyous  song; 

The  warbler's  melody  enchants  the  grove; 
Ye  are  the  empire  of  the  birds,  and  long 

They  linger  in  the  bowers  they  dearly  love; 

And  when  rich  human  voices  soar  above 
The  murmurings  of  care  to  gratitude, 

How  sweetly  by  your  echoes  ye  approve! 
Swiftly  the  strains  fly  through  the  solemn  wood, 
As  if  it  felt  how  blest  were  man  if  pure  and  good. 


TO    THE     WOODS,  27 

Unceasing  worshippers!  whose  verdant  palms 

Are  stretched  forever  toward  the  bounteous  sky; 
Nor  yet  in  vain  ye  ask  of  heaven  alms; 

Light,  heat,  rain,  dew,  descending  from  on  high, 

The  drooping  raise,  the  dead  revivify. 
Would  man  surrender  up  his  soul  to  prayer, 

His  years  might  number  yours,  and  as  they  fly, 
More  deeply  might  he  drink  of  heavenly  air, 
Until  he  quits  his  clay,  scarce  knowing  when  or  where. 

But  there  ye  stand  outwearing  centuries, 

That  seem  to  make  you  mightier  foes  of  death; 

Though  age  his  wrinkles  deepen  on  the  trees, 

Yet  Spring  has  newer  leaves  for  Summer's  breath, 
Unheeding  those  November  casts  beneath; 

Gaily  they  dance  their  summer  strength  away, 
Till  Autumn  a  new  harvest  gathereth; 

The  naked  trunks  with  tempests  yet  will  play, 
While  empires  and  their  purple  glory  pass  away. 

The  ocean  ebbs  and  flows  from  age  to  age; 

'Tis  an  eternity  of  liquid  change; 
The  "  Falls  "  are  the  sublimity  of  rage, 

Boiling  like  outraged  spirits  for  revenge; 

And  prairies  seem  like  solid  oceans  strange : 
In  solemn  grandeur  ye  surpass  them  all; 

No  storms  your  sturdy  phalanx  disarrange; 
Ye  answer  proudly  when  the  thunders  call; 
And  where  ye  stood  for  life,  whene'er  ye  mus4-,  ye  fall. 


28  TO    THE    WOODS. 

Ye  were  the  temples  where  the  Saviour  went, 

To  call  down  mercy  on  a  thankless  race; 
Ye  bowed  your  heads  in  reverence  as  he  bent, 

While  Nature  gazed  enraptured  on  his  face; 

Sublimer  scene  than  fancy  e'er  can  trace! 
For  when  beneath  the  starry  crown  of  even, 

He  kneeled,  ye   felt  that  God  was  in  the  place ! 
For  this,  what  songs  go  up  from  souls  forgiven, 
Beneath  the  trees  of  Life,  those  vocal  Woods  of  Heaven! 

KENTUCKY,  1837. 


all 


Hflttf  cold  and  dark  the  night  around! 

The  breezy  Autumn  day  is  gone; 
But  still  remains  the  wind's  low  sound 

To  tell  me  I  am  all  alone. 

Far,  far  away  am  I  from  home; 

Its  visions  crowd  my  thoughts  upon; 
Where'er  I  go,  while  thence  I  roam, 

I'm  still  alone,  I'm  still  alone. 

We  brothers  'neath  that  old  oak  tree, 
Gave  up  our  hours  to  cheer  and  fun; 

But  many  a  nobler  oak  I  see, 
To  mind  me  that  I'm  now  alone. 

From  yonder  field,  how  rich  the  song 
That  hails  me  ere  the  morning  Sun! 

Delight  then  swells  my  spirit  strong, 
Till  I  bethink  me  I'm  alone. 


I'M     ALL    ALONE. 

I  see  a  bright  young  form  go  by, — 
His  kindly  look  my  heart  has  won; 

My  earliest  friend  had  such  an  eye — 
But  now  he's  left  me  ah1  alone. 

Amid  the  city's  blaze  of  art, 

How  many  such  one  glance  have  thrown, 
Then  left  an  unknown  brother  heart 

To  sing  with  me,  "  I'm  all  alone!" 

Yet  lonelier  far  the  worldly  great, 
Upon  his  sword  encircled  throne; 

Whom  all  obey,  and  fear,  and  hate — 
I  joy  that  I'm  not  thus  alone. 

But  even  in  the  darkest  night, 

When  round  my  path  the  storm  has  blown, 
I've  sung,  and  from  the  unseen  height 

Has  echo  answered,  "  Not  alone." 

And  here  is  spread  a  cheerful  hoard, 
To  wake  the  care-worn  spirit's  tone; 

A  family  sits  round  the  board — 
I'll  think  that  family  my  own. 

Before  me  climbs  the  murmuring  fire, 
A  sight  to  thaw  a  heart  of  stone; 

Would  thus  my  kindling  thoughts  aspire, 
'Twere  even  bliss  to  be  alone. 


I'M    ALL    ALONE. 

Then  let  the  world  without  be  cold, 
My  spirit  shall  not  inly  moan; 

Hope  shall  a  second  self  unfold, 
A  warmer  soul — I'm  not  alone. 

What  though  no  friend  bestow  a  smile, 
Or  lend  to  transient  grief  a  tear; 

And  none,  of  whom  oblivion's  wile 
May  never  rob  this  heart,  appear. 

Yet  while  I  hear  my  Maker's  voice, 

All  hearts  and  homes  seem  mixed  in  one; 

While  Him  I  love,  I  may  rejoice 
That  I  can  never  be  alone. 

ILLINOIS,  1838. 


Athens!  the  home  of  learning  and  beauty, 

How  I  long  for  thy  hills  and  thy  rich  balmy  air; 
For  thy  wide  spreading  greens,  smiling  sweetly  on  duty, 

And  the  valley  beneath,  and  the  stream  wending  there! 
On  the  North  the  high  rock,  on  the  South  the  lone  ferry; 

The  ville  on  the  East,  and  the  mill  on  the  West, 
The  lawn  where  the  gravest  at  play  hours  were  merry, 

And  the  walks  by  the  footstep  of  beauty  made  blest: 

The  old  college  building — where  Enfield  and  Stewart 

Oft  found  me  ensconced  in  the  cupola  cool; 
While  I  glanced  now  and  then,  mid  the  study  of  true  art, 

At  the  names  graven  there  by  the  pocket  edge-tool; 
Oh,  time  has  diminished  the  strength  of  my  spirit, 

The  visions  of  youth  are  my  glories  no  more; 
But  still  one  estate  from  thee  I  inherit, 

The  old  right  of  way  to  the  stars  and  their  lore. 


ATHENS,     OHIO.  33 

What  eloquence  rang  from  yonder  broad  staging! 

Old  Cicero's  spirit  was  certainly  there; 
And  there  was  some  youthful  Demosthenes  raging, 

Or  Chatham  or  Webster  was  sawing  the  air: 
Our  essays — the  teachers  endured  them  how  meekly, 

As  well  as  oar  sermons  on  virtue  and  truth; 
But  they  heard  not,  as  we  did,  the  doggerel  weekly, 

The  talk  of  smart  fellows  and  promising  youth. 

Then  the  fun  of  the  blunders  at  each  recitation ! 

The  roasting  coal  fire  beneath  the  blackboard — 
The  hard  lessons  darkening  anticipation — 

The  way  idle  scholars  were  scolded  and  scored — 
The  answers  from  book  where  the  coat-tail  concealed  it, 

The  dawnings  of  genius  that  stole  o'er  the  slate, 
The  awkward  excuse,  when  a  side  view  revealed  it — 

The  broad  hint  Professor  gave  lazy  eyed  Late. 

And  then  our  Societies,  oh  how  we  boasted 

Of  what  we  would  do,  and  of  what  we  had  done! 
How  oft  in  debate  were  our  opponents  worsted! 

What  golden  opinions  our  literature  won ! 
What  a  fuss  we  were  in  at  th'  examination — 

Pitty-pat  went  our  hearts,  and  our  faces  turned  red ! 
What  a  shout  on  the  stairs,  just  before  the  vacation ! 

.What  a  funny  life  through  interregnum  we  led! 


34  ATHENS,    OHIO. 

Sweet  Athens!  o'er  thee  love  and  light  hold  dominion; 

They  poured  their  rich  harmony  full  on  thy  breeze! 
Oh,  would  but  some  gentle  dove  lend  me  his  pinion, 

How  soon  would  I  perch  mid  thy  soft  locust  trees! 
But  where  is  his  reverend  form,  who  presided, 

Alive  with  strong  intellect,  feeling  and  power; 
Whom  we  loved  and  revered,  and  in  whom  all  confided, 

The  Washington  guiding  through  danger's  dark  hour? 

Bright  Athens,  farewell!  if  thy  green  slopes  should  never 

Loom  up  in  the  distance  to  welcome  me  more, 
Thy  scenes  are  engraved  on  my  heart,  and  forever 

Shall  memory  faithfully  keep  them  in  store; 
I  think  of  thy  rills,  and  my  blood,  richly  flowing, 

Leaps  freshly  as  erst  through  every  vein; 
And  thy  landscape  with  distance  and  time  brighter  growing, 

Seems  all  made  anew  in  the  heavenly  plain. 


away  moments, 

Yet  bear  me  with  you, 
To  some  brighter  region, 

Where  pleasure  is  true. 
Nay — let  me  remain — 

Tho'  my  bliss  were  all  spent, 
If  I  make  it  my  own, 

I  can  live  on  content. 

Fly  away  hours! 
Yet  lend  me  your  wings; 

I  will  go  to  the  bowers 
Where  Hope  sweetly  sings; 

Nay — shall  I  be  cheated 
By  Hope  yet  again? 

I  will  learn  here  to  gather 
My  pleasure  from  pain. 


36  STANZAS. 

Fly  away  days! 

And  welcome  the  night! 
To  the  moon's  colder  rays 

I  would  flee  from  the  bright: 
Meditation!  that  dwell'st 

In  the  dim  spangled  sky, 
In  that  pale  burning  star, 

I  will  seek  thee  on  high. 

Fly  away  weeks! 

The  faster  ye  go, 
The  more  Sabbath  breezes 

Around  me  shall  blow; 
0  leave  not  a  moment 

From  duty  released, 
Lest  regret  on  my  feelings, 

Like  a  vulture,  should  feast. 

Fly  away  months! 

Even  change  is  delight, 
When  gazing  intently 

Has  weakened  my  sight; 
Yet  stay,  till  remembrance 

Shall  gleam  from  past  sorrow, 
Some  lesson  of  wisdom, 

To  brighten  the  morrow. 


STANZAS.  07 


Fly  away  years! 

Ye  measure  my  life; 
Begone,  all  my  fears, 

And  welcome  the  strife: 
Welcome  care,  welcome  toil, 

Let  my  pathway  grow  rougher; 
I  will  climb  with  a  will, 
Since   to  be,  is  to  suffer. 

ILLINOIS.  1838. 


<@5JjE  rose  of  the  morn 
Entrances  the  sight; 
And  the  Spring  in  her  dawn 
Seems  an  angel  of  light; 
So  the  cheek  has  its  roses 

Of  beauty  and  youth; 
And  each  one  discloses 

A  heavenly  truth: 

Oh  brighter  than  morn,  with  its  rosy  light, 
Are  the  visions  that  glimmer  in  childhood's  sight; 
And  lovelier  far  than  the  dawn  of  the  Spring, 
Is  the  flight  of  the  soul  when  it  first  takes  the  wing! 

The  bird  who  so  fair, 

Dipped  his  plume  in  the  Sun, 
Quitteth  beauty  for  care; 

To  his  nest  he  is  gone. 
Go  thou  to  the  skies, 

Wrap  thyself  in  their  glory; 
Then  brighten  young  eyes, 

With  the  robe  they  fling  o'er  thee: 


SCHOOLHOUSE    STANZAS. 

And  richer  by  far  than  the  beams  of  the  Sun, 
Is  the  light  which  the  embryo  spirit  has  won; 
And  higher  than  ever  the  lark  hath  flown, 
Is  the  flight  of  the  soul,  when  its  wings  are  grown. 

That  stream  was  a  rill, 

A  raindrop  of  the  mountain, 
And  would  have  been  still, 

Had  it  ne'er  left  its  fountain; 
That  oak  was  an  acorn, 
Alone  in  the  wood — 
There  the  eagle  has  taken 
Her  nest  and  her  brood: 
That  soul  is  a  drop,  and  that  mind  is  a  grain; 
The  eagle  shall  follow  its  soarings  in  vain; 
'T  will  be  strong  as  the  oak,  and  wide  as  the  river; 
Flow  onward,  and  widen,  and  deepen,  forever, 

ILLINOIS,  1838. 


39 


iiitiim. 


on,  majestic  River! 
A  mightier  bids  thee  come, 
And  join  him  on  his  radiant  way, 

To  seek  an  ocean  home; 
Flow  on  amid  the  vale  and  hill, 
And  the  wide  West  with  beauty  fill. 

I  have  seen  thee  in  the  sunlight, 

With  the  summer  breeze  at  play, 
When  a  million  sparkling  jewels  shone 

Upon  thy  rippled  way; 
How  fine  a  picture  of  the  strife 
Between  the  smiles  and  tears  of  life! 

I  have  seen  thee  when  the  storm  cloud 

Was  mirrored  in  thy  face. 
And  the  tempest  started  thy  white  waves 

On  a  merry,  merry  race; 
And  I'  ve  thought  how  little  sorrow's  wind 
Can  stir  the  deeply  flowing  mind. 


LA    BELLE    RIVIERE. 

I  have  seen  thee  when  the  morning 

Hath  tinged  with  lovely  bloom 
Thy  features,  waking  tranquilly 

From  night's  romantic  gloom; 
If  every  life  had  such  a  morn, 
It  were  a  blessing  to  be  born! 

And  when  the  evening  heavens 
Were  on  thy  canvas  spread, 
And  wrapt  in  golden  splendor,  Day 

Lay  beautiful  and  dead; 
Thus  sweet  were  man's  expiring  breath, 
Oh,  who  would  fear  the  embrace  of  death! 

And  when  old  Winter  paved  thee 

For  the  fiery  foot  of  youth; 
And  thy  soft  waters  underneath 
Were  gliding,  clear  as  truth; 
So  oft  an  honest  heart  we  trace, 
Beneath  a  sorrow-frozen  face. 

And  when  thou  wert  a  chaos 
Of  crystals  thronging  on, 
Till  melted  by  the  breath  of  Spring, 

Thou  bidst  the  steamers  run; 
Then  thousands  of  the  fair  and  free, 
Were  swiftly  borne  along  on  thee. 


41 


42  LA     BELLE    RIVIERE. 

But  now  the  Sun  of  summer 

Hath  left  the  sandbars  bright, 
And  the  steamer's  thunder,  and  his  fires 

No  more  disturb  the  night; 
Thou  seemest  like  those  fairy  streams, 
We  sometimes  meet  with  in  our  dreams. 

How  Spring  has  decked  the  forest! 

That  forest  kneels  to  thee; 
And  the  long  canoe  and  the  croaking  skiff, 

Are  stemming  thy  current  free; 
Thy  placid  marge  is  fringed  with  green, 
Save  where  the  villas  intervene. 

Again  the  rush  of  waters 

Unfurls  the  flag  of  steam, 
And  the  river  palace  in  its  pomp, 
Divides  the  trembling  stream; 
Thy  angry  surges  lash  the  shore, 
Then  sleep  as  sweetly  as  before. 

Then  Autumn  pours  her  plenty, 

And  makes  thee  all  alive, 
With  floating  barks  that  show  how  well 

Thy  cultured  vallies  thrive; 
The  undressing  fields  yield  up  their  grain, 
To  dress  in  richer  robes  again. 


LA     BELLE     RIVIERE.  43 

Too  soon  thy  brimming  channel 

Has  widened  to  the  hill, 
As  if  the  lap  of  wealthy  plain 
With  deeper  wealth  to  fill; 
Oh !  take  not  more  than  thou  dost  give, 
But  let  the  toilworn  cotter  live. 

Oh!  could  I  see  thee  slumber, 
As  thou  wast  wont  of  yore, 
When  the  Indian  in  his  birchen  bark, 

Sped  lightly  from  the  shore; 
Then  fiery  eyes  gleamed  through  the  wood, 
And  thou  wast  often  tinged  with  blood. 

The  tomahawk  and  arrow, 

The  wigwam  and  the  deer, 
Made  up  the  red  man's  little  world, 

Unknown  to  smile  or  tear; 
The  spire,  the  turret  and  the  tree, 
Then  mingled  not  their  shades  on  thee. 

Now  an  hundred  youthful  cities 
Are  gladdened  by  thy  smile, 
And  thy  breezes  sweetened  through  the  fields, 

The  husbandman  beguile; 
Those  fields  were  planted  by  the  brave, — 
Oh!  let  not  fraud  come  near  their  grave- 


44  LA     BELLE     RIVIERE, 

Roll  on,  my  own  bright  River, 

In  loveliness  sublime; 
Through  every  season,  every  age, 

The  favorite  of  Time  ! 
Would  that  my  soul  could  with  thee  roam, 
Through  the  long  centuries  to  come! 

I  have  gazed  upon  thy  beauty, 
Till  my  heart  is  wed  to  thee; 
Teach  it  to  flow  o'er  life's  long  plain, 

In  tranquil  majesty; 
Its  channel  growing  deep  and  wide — 
May  Heaven's  own  sea  receive  its  tide! 


3  llkl  my  little  scholars, 

I  like  them,  every  one; 
The  little  lass  with  the  lily  face, 

And  the  poor  man's  ragged  son. 

As  they  sit  upon  their  benches, 
They  seem  like  rows  of  flowers; 

And  as  I  watch  their  busy  eyes, 
How  sweetly  pass  the  hours! 

There  's  something  in  the  faces 
Of  freshly  blooming  youth, 

That  is  the  very  portraiture 
Of  innocence  and  truth. 

And  as  I  watch  the  sparkling 
Of  a  mildly  beaming  eye, 

I  seem  to  be  a  gazer  on 
The  pure  millennial  sky. 


,*  TEACHER'S     MELODY. 

And  if  there  is  a  Paradise 
Upon  this  guilty  earth, 

'T  is  in  a  school,  where  Virtue  leads 
The  song  of  genial  mirth. 

Oh !  what  is  there  which  minds  one 
Of  Eternity's  long  day, 

Like  the  bursting  of  the  mental  bud, 
That  ne'er  shall  know  decay! 

ILLINOIS,  1838. 


IB  1)0  is  the  rich? 
Is  it  the  million-moneyed  miser, 
But  none  the  better,  or  the  wiser; 
Who  wakes  at  night,  from  fear  to  lose 
The  gold  he  never  means  to  use; 
Whose  head  is  half  a  quarter's  rent, 
Whose  heart  is  only  six  per  cent; 
Who  starves  himself  to  have  at  death, 
That  which  he  loses  with  his  breath? 
Throughout  his  life  he  wades  a  ditch, 
And  is  most  miserably  rich. 

The  happy  rich? 
Is  he  the  dashing  profligate, 
Who  bonfires  many  a  large  estate; 
Who  boasts  o'er  soul  destroying  dinners, 
How  much  it  costs  such  glorious  sinners; 
And  breaks,  to  prove  that  he  is  smart, 
A  parent's  fortune  and  his  heart; 


48 


THE    1UCH. 

Or  fearing  to  be  reckoned  poor, 
Exhausts  himself  to  famine's  door? 
Experience,  with  her  iron  switch, 
Will  teach  him  he  was  never  rich. 

Who  then  the  rich? 
The  lordling  of  a  boundless  realm, 
Of  some  vast  government  the  helm; 
Whom  Fortune  scorches  with  her  favors, 
And  Fame  but  sickens  with  sweet  savors; 
Beset  by  flatterers,  as  by  mice, 
The  slave  of  passion  and  of  vice; 
His  virtues  mangled  by  his  errors; 
His  fears  wrought  up  to  thousand  terrors; 
His  dearest  friend  a  hungry  leech? — 
Heaven  save  me  then  from  being  rich! 

The  truly  rich? 
Is  he  the  heir  of  lofty  mind, 
Whose  ken  may  compass  all  mankind; 
Whose  mental  plains  Time's  swelling  river 
Shall  flood  with  deeper  soil  forever; 
Yet  o'er  them  filthy  waters  lie, 
Where  Vice  may  flourish,  Virtue  die, 
And  weeds  of  thought  enwrap  the  grave 
Of  Peace — where  sullen  willows  wave? 
The  bittern's  doleful  note  shall  teach — 
Who  virtue  wants,  can  ne'er  be  rich. 


THE     RILH. 

Then  who  the  rich? 

'T  is  he  thro'  whose  deep  channelled  soul, 
The  steady  stream  of  Time  shall  roll, 
And  leave  its  gold  and  gems  behind, 
To  fill  the  coffers  of  the  mind; 
Who  has  a  home  in  every  clime, 
A  heavenly  Friend  in  every  time; 
Who  calls  the  blooming  Earth  his  mother, 
And  every  son  of  Earth  his  brother: 
Heaven  keeps  for  him  a  golden  niche — 
He  has  the  world,  and  he  is  rich. 


49 


f  jjf   $clja0lmaster. 


(Dtj!  who  is  so  merry  as  the  merry  schoolmaster? 
True  mirth  is  his  fortune,  and  none  spends  it  faster; 
Though  his  cheek  may  be  hollow,  his  locks  may  be  gray, 
He  lives  to  his  last  mid  the  dawn  of  the  day. 

Tho'  the  flowers  of  the  field  bathe  our  eyes  in  the  light, 
'T  is  the  bloom  of  young  faces  enraptures  the  sight; 
The  one  may  breathe  fragrance,  the  other  breathes  soul, — 
How  it  gleams  through  the  eyes  that  bewitchingly  roll! 

Oh!  give  me  the  rose,  the  sweet  rose  that  can  blush, 
And  the  blossom  that  wears  a  sweet  thought  in  its  flush; 
Oh!  give  me  the  eye,  like  the  sun  on  the  lake, 
And  the  ripples  of  life  o'er  the  features  that  break ! 

Full  many  a  day,  o'er  the  rusty  old  stove, 
Have  those  features  been  lighted  with  life  and  with  love; 
While  the  whistling  of  Winter  came  thro'  the  thick  walls, 
And  the  music  of  Storm  from  his  cloud  covered  halls. 


THE    SCHOOLMASTER.  5| 

Tho'  the  earth  should  seem  melted  to  mud  and  to  water, 
As  sure  as  the  Sun,  comes  the  dear  little  daughter; 
And  when  the  whole  sky  is  falling  in  snow, 
With  a  wool  covered  back  pops  in  little  Joe. 

For  their  lessons  to  learn  is  more  fun  than  sleighing, 
And  to  read  about  Kitty  is  better  than  playing; 
And  the  praise  they  receive  for  perfection  in  spelling, 
Soon  puts  them  above  all  conceit  of  rebelling. 

At  recess  they  frolic  like  birds  on  the  wing ; 
How  thrilling  their  shout  as  they  chase  round  the  ring! 
When  they  catch  out  each  other,  while  playing  old  cat, 
And  the  ball  is  sent  back  by  the  broad  pointed  bat. 

Then  the  loud  and  long  call,  or  the  bell,  or  the  rap; 
Each  bows  at  the  door,  as  he  pulls  off  his  cap; 
Then  hush  their  loud  mirth,  and  with  faces  too  red, 
They  sit  o'er  their  lessons,  as  still  as  in  bed. 

Yet  never  a  nod,  or  if  there  should  be, 
The  sleepy  head 's  waked  by  the  laughing,  you  see; 
While  his  big  eyes  roll  round  'neath  the  weight  of  their  lids, 
He  grins  at  the  sport  he  reluctantly  heeds. 

Then  out  comes  a  class,  and  in  turn  or  together, 
They  read  of  the  world,  or  the  wolf,  or  the  weather; 
Some  clear  as  a  flute,  and  some  soft  as  a  rill. 
And  some  with  the  tones  of  a  clarion  shrill. 


02  THE    SCHOOLMASTER. 

And  as  for  the  rest — the  cyphering,  writing, 
The  spelling,  the  scolding,  the  occasional  smiting; 
JT  is  the  pepper  and  salt  to  a  schoolmaster's  dish, 
To  be  a  schoolmaster  then  pray  do  n't  you  wish? 

In  a  school  you  will  live  in  perpetual  youth; 
Your  companions,  sweet  innocence,  beauty  and  truth; 
On  your  deeds  will  your  own  world  around  you  be  fed, 
And  you  live  in  a  thousand  hearts  when  you  are  dead. 

ILLINOIS.  1838. 


little  Pocket  Bible,  I  would  not  part  with  thee, 
If  thou  could'st  purchase  all  the  gems  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea; 
For  that  one  word,  that  single  word,  on  which  I  dropt  a  tear, 
As  I  gave  my  heart  to  heaven,  I  '11  hold  thee  ever  dear. 

When  wearied  out  with  vanity,  my  spirit  sighs  for  home, 
I  open  thee,  and  hear  a  voice,  "Come  heavy  laden,  come;" 
The  load  falls  off  my  shoulders,  I  feel  the  strength  of  wings; 
And  with  its  lowly  place  content,  my  raptured  spirit  sings. 

All  glory  seems  ascending  to  God  from  whence  it  came, 
And  gratitude  seems  burning  in  every  starry  flame; 
All  loveliness  and  beauty,  the  truthful  and  the  grand, 
Shine  on  thy  pages,  like  the  streams  and  hills  on  Canaan's 
land. 

Thou  art  the  tongue  of  heaven  that  speaks  to  mortal  ear, 

In  tones  of  love  and  pity,  yet  faithful  and  severe; 

That  warns  us  from  the  steep  which  hangs  o'er  wickedness 

and  woe, 
And  bids  us  follow  yonder  star  of  brilliant  eastern  glow. 


54 


MY     POCKET     B I B  L  E 


The  star  that  shines  so  bright  on  earth,  how  much  more 

bright  in  heaven, 

The  Sabbath  of  the  week  of  Time  that  sanctifies  the  seven! 
Where  eyes  too  strong  for  mortal  gaze,  like  eagles  search 

the  sun, 
And  wings  of  ecstacy  ascend  toward  the  Eternal  throne! 

ILLINOIS,  1838. 


SUGGESTED    BY    THE   BLOWING   UP    OF   THE   MOSELLE. 


up  the  fires!     The  cord  wood  crowds  the  stove  ; 

The  pent  up  flame  is  flashing  through  the  flues; 
Furious  the  steam  is  bursting  from  above, 

Watering  the  highest  deck  with  boiling  dews: 
"Put  on  all  steam!"  the  Captain  shouts,  "and  we 
Will  teach  the  very  lightning  how  to  flee!" 

Man  loves  to  triumph  over  Nature;  nay, 
He  longs  to  prove  that  she  is  but  his  slave; 

Her  forces,  struggling  for  their  freedom,  may 
Work  out  his  will;  but  oft,  with  instinct  brave, 

When  in  his  heart  the  tyrant  passions  burn, 

With  terrible  energy  upon  him  turn. 

The  wheel  turns  once  —  the  Sampson  bursts  his  chain  — 
A  flash  as  all  heaven's  lightning  gathered  there  ! 

A  roar  as  if  the  earth  were  rent  in  twain! 
A  horrid  rain  that  darkens  all  the  air! 

As  if  another  Sodom  met  its  doom, 

Or  time's  last  trump  awoke  the  boundless  tomb! 


fifi  THE     EXPLOSION. 

All  came  at  once,  the  shriek,  the  splash,  the  yell — 
One  moment,  Chaos  mounted  toward  the  sky, — 

The  next,  it  strewed  the  earth.     Then  sudden  fell 
On  either  shore,  on  pavement,  turret  high, 

And  shattered  roof — and  on  the  far  off  field, 

All  that  Destruction's  harvest  there  could  yield. 

There  lies  the  Captain  on  the  bank,  stone  dead, 

And  he  who  had  provoked  the  ruin,  low 
Lies  near — a  fragment  driven  through  his  head. 

Son,  daughter,  mother,  sire,  where  are  they  now? 
Rich,  poor,  friend,  foe,  wise,  wicked  sink  together, 
Or  mingle  with  the  splinter  or  the  feather. 

Oh!  could  we  feel  that  moment's  agony, — 

A  hell  extinguishing  itself;  undone 
Unnumbered  ties;  two  hundred  souls  set  free; 

A  million  deaths  all  crowded  into  one! — 
We  could  but  think  it  mercy  to  our  frame, 
To  quench  so  suddenly  life's  fated  flame. 

Less  sad  their  doom,  whose  anguish  was  so  vast, 
It  forced  the  maddened  life  at  once  away; 

At  once  they  leaped  the  future  from  the  past, 
Nor  'neath  the  weight  of  shattered  senses  lay — 

But  dreadful  was  their  fate,  who  lingered  still, 

The  captives  that  grim  Death  must  torment  ere  he  kill. 


THE    EXPLOSION.  57 

The  Sun  went  down  upon  the  awful  scene 

In  sombre  majesty, — the  skies  seemed  blood — 

The  river  smiled  no  more  from  his  red  sheen; 

And  that  dim  night  like  Death's  own  silence  stood 

On  stream  and  shore,  while  eyes  too  dark  for  tears 

Searched  by  the  lantern  light,  with  hopes  outweighed  by  fears. 

And  dreadful  were  the  visions  seen  that  night 

By  clouded  eyes  in  intervals  of  slumber; 
And  many  a  mother  screamed  and  woke  with  fright, 

Dreaming  her  son  was  of  the  fated  number; 
And  when  the  shutters  opened,  pensive  dawn 
Saw  many  a  once  bright  feature  withered,  pale  and  wan. 

But  other  shutters  locked  the  morning  ray 

From  some  who  had  survived  a  night  of  anguish, 

Or  from  the  rooms  where  shivered  corses  lay, 

Where  friends  are  too  much  shocked  to  grieve  or  languish; 

While  gazing  thousands  hear  from  yonder  shore, 

The  lesson  that  a  cursed  Ambition  reads  once  more. 

ILLINOIS,  1839. 


pine  for  the  verdured  plain, 
Some  long  for  the  boundless  sea; 
And  some  for  the  mountain  above  the  rain, 
But  the  hills,  the  hills  for  me ! 

How  bright  is  the  swelling  sail, 

As  it  mingles  with  the  sky! 
How  rich  the  snow  cap,  resting  pale 

On  the  peak  where  the  breezes  die ! 

Here  from  this  blooming  hill, 

The  wave  and  the  mount  I  see; 
The  plain  and  the  river  that  winds  at  its  will- 

The  hills!  the  hills!  for  me. 

The  hills  fear  not  the  storm; 
Disease  delights  in  the  vale; 

Here  the  head  is  cool,  and  the  heart  is  warm- 
Hail  to  the  green  hills,  hail! 


51  htotljn  and  three  sisters  came  to  school; 

They  were  the  children  of  adversity; 
Their  manners  easy,  quiet,  kind,  yet  cool; 

Their  chastened  spirits  never  rose  to  glee; 
A  something  like  entreaty  filled  their  eyes; 
Their  virtues  seemed  above  their  years  to  rise. 

A  tender  mother  was  their  only  staff; 
The  father  was  an  invalid  for  years; 
With  resignation's  smile  they  learned  to  quaff 

Contentment's  cup,  half  sweetened  by  their  tears: 
To  nurse  a  growing  cough,  the  boy  at  home 
Remained,  and  soon  his  sisters  ceased  to  come. 

Again  they  came  with  paler  cheeks,  but  staid 
Scarce  half  a  week;  for  now  the  mother  saw 
His  illness  was  a  lingering  death  delayed; 

And  tho'  the  book  ceased  not  his  heart  to  draw, 
He  still  loved  play,  and  as  he  chased  the  ball, 
Would  often  stop,  with  sudden  cry,  or  fall. 


^  THE     CONSUMPTIVE. 

So  kept  at  home,  he  read  while  mother  spun; 

And  oft  she  stopped  the  loom  to  mark  his  tears; 
While  little  Martha's  eye  was  often  won 
By  an  unearthly  look  of  his,  and  fears 
Of  something  she  knew  not  would  touch  her  heart, 
And  she  from  waking  dreams  would  shuddering  start, 

A  little  garden  long  had  won  his  care — 

A  nursery  round  it,  and  a  vigorous  tree, 
Just  twice  his  height,  but  not  of  age  to  bear, 
Was  in  its  midst;  he  loved  to  sit  and  see 
The  yellowing  leaves  now  dropping  one  by  one, 
As  if  he  sympathized  with  bloom  so  nearly  gone. 

One  day  his  eye  grew  brighter,  and  he  seemed 

The  portrait  of  returning  health.     The  sisters  thought 
That  never  had  his  face  so  sweetly  beamed, 

And  by  unwonted  animation  sought 
To  keep  his  spirits  up;  they  gathered  round, 
And  talked  of  all  that  once  had  made  his  heart  to  bound. 

He  smiled  upon  their  fondness;  mother  smiled; 

Even  the  father's  ghastly  features  lit; 
But  while  John's  eye  grew  bright,  't  was  growing  wild ; 

"  Sister,  my  little  garden — tend  it  yet — 
When  the  first  apple  from  my  young  tree  falls. 
Then  listen,  and  believe  't  is  John  that  calls." 


THE    CONSUMPTIVE. 

"Mother,  this  Bible  I  give  back  to  you; 

Let  Martha  read  for  me — to  father;  when'' — 
Here  he  stopped  short  and  sunk — it  was  too  true ! 

His  features  marble — ne'er  to  change  again; 
Astonishment  first  kept  their  eyelids  dry — 
Then  burst  the  mother's,  then  the  sisters'  cry! 

Two  days  had  passed,  when  slowly  came  a  train 
Of  bending  forms,  and  pensive  downcast  eyes, 
To  that  green  spot  upon  the  wooded  plain, 

Behind  the  nook  whereon  the  schoolhouse  lies; 
The  children  stood  around  the  grave,  and  wept 
O'er  him  who  in  that  long  red  coffin  slept. 

No  more  in  social  play  or  study,  he 

Whose  cheek  is  ghastly  cold  and  pale  shall  join; 
The  coffin  lowers  in  the  grave,  while  she, 

Who  held  him  dearest,  utters  one  deep  groan; 
A  brother's  feelings  in  each  young  heart  swell, 
And  every  eye  expresses  a  farewell. 

Then  fell  the  clods  upon  the  coffin  lid, 

And  every  stroke  thrilled  thro'  a  mother's  heart. 
A  mound  is  soon  erected  o'er  the  dead; 

A  roof  of  poles  laid  on  with  rustic  art, 
To  guard  the  sleeping  place  from  vulgar  feet, 
While  head  and  foot  boards  make  the  bed  complete. 


61 


02  THE    CONSUMPTIVE. 

No  funeral  service  o'er  the  grave  was  spoken, 

No  pompous  mourning  dresses  flaunted  there; 
But  every  saddened  feature  was  a  token 

Of  the  deep  mourning  feeling  hearts  can  wear; 
And  when,  the  burial  o'er,  the  crowd  had  gone, 
The  scholars  sung  a  little  dirge  to  John. 

Farewell,  brother,  we  have  laid  thee 

Underneath  the  lofty  oak, 
That  last  summer  used  to  shade  thee 

From  the  Sun's  meridian  stroke: 
Did  we  think,  while  'neath  its  cover, 
Here  we  read  our  lessons  over, 
Round  thy  grave  we  soon  should  hover? 

Could  we  think,  when  lovely  morning 
Found  thee  at  the  schoolhouse  door, 
With  its  rose  thy  cheek  adorning, 

Soon  that  rose  would  bloom  no  more? 
When  to  Teacher  we  recited, 
Would  his  smile  so  bland  have  lighted, 
Knew  he  thou  would'st  soon  be  blighted? 

When  at  noon  we  used  to  call  thee, 

To  the  base,  or  hole  or  den, 
Had  he  told  what  would  befal  thee, 

Would  we  have  believed  him  then? 


THE    CONSUMPTIVE.  63 

Sure  to  strike,  and  quick  to  parry, 
Brisk  at  play,  though  seldom  merry — 
Rest  thee,  brother,  thou  art  weary. 

Could  we  go  but  half  way  with  thee, 

To  the  place  beyond  the  tomb, 
We  with  farewell  flowers  might  wreathe  thee, 

Catch  a  glimpse  of  thy  new  home. 
Fare  thee  well — a  spirit  blooming, 
Hither  should'st  thou  e'er  be  roaming, 
Brother,  tell  us  of  thy  coming! 

ILLINOIS,  1838. 


to   ii    fflfust    trcr 


3  IflflB  thee,  locust  tree, 

Where'er  or  when  I  see, 
Not  for  thy  form  in  which  I  trace 
The  gently  curving  lines  of  grace; 

But  for  those  forms  of  glee 

Thou  bringst  to  memory, 
My  earliest  playmates  'neath  the  merry  locust  tree. 

I  love  thee,  locust  tree, 

Not  for  the  breezes  free, 
That  play  with  thy  velvet  fingered  leaves; 
Nor  the  fragrance  thy  rich  blossom  gives 

To  the  ever  busy  air, 

But  for  those  faces  fair — 
Bathed  in  the  locust's  cooling  shade — again  I  see  them  there. 

I  love  thee,  locust  tree, 
For  the  song  that  rung  from  thee, 
Like  an  angel  choir,  when  the  morning  beam 
%    Awakened  me  from  a  glorious  dream. 


TO    A    LOCUST    TREE. 


65 


The  song  it  came  unsought 
Through  the  window  of  my  cot, 
And  roused  a  thrill  of  gratitude  for  my  happy  humble  lot. 

I  love  thee,  locust  tree, 

For  my  mother  seems  to  be 
Now  at  my  side,  as  wont  of  yore, 
When  she  taught  me  nature's  noblest  lore ; 

I  see  her  now  as  oft, 

With  hand  and  voice  so  soft, 

She  pointed  through  the  boughs  of  green  and  bade  me 
look  aloft! 

I  love  thee,  locust  tree; 

My  father,  where  is  he  ? 

When  the  thunder  roared,  and  the  lightning  came, 
And  wound  the  locust  with  wire  of  flame, 

How  sudden  was  my  cry! 

He  searched  my  frighted  eye, 
"Son,  fear  the  voice  of  Him  who  thunders  from  on  high." 

I  love  thee,  locust  tree — 

'T  was  a  mournful  day  to  me, 
When  'rieath  the  shade  in  front  of  our  cot, 
My  sister's  coffin  was  slowly  brought; 

And  a  dying  leaf  did  fall 

From  the  locust  on  the  pall, 
And  I  wept  as  we  bore  her  clay — not  her — to  the  narrow 

funeral  hall. 

9 


6g  TO    A    LOCUST    TREE. 

I  love  thee,  locust  tree, 

Thou  seem'st  a  family, 
That  I  may  never  see  again, 
Till  the  car  of  Death  bear  us  o'er  the  plain* 

But  if  a  landscape  sweet 

Our  meeting  eyes  shall  greet, 
In  another,  happier  world,  'neath  a  beast  may  we  m33t! 

ILLINOIS,  1838. 


prep   i&rongl)   tlje 


(Dllt  West,  a  certain  edifies  is  built 
In  one  day  and  a  half,  by  twenty  man, 

Of  black  oak  logs;  and  half  the  cracks  are  filled 
With  fjnce  rails,  mud  and  mortar;  now  and  then 

A  hole  is  left  to  let  in  light  of  day — 

The  other  half  are  filled  in  the  same  way. 

A  something  called  a  chimney,  at  one  end, 

Is  reared  of  rock,  clay,  shingles,  laths  and  logs; 

And  these  in  strata  regularly  ascend; 

Two  chunks  of  rjtten  wood  may  serve  for  dogs; 

A  door  will  whine  on  wooden  hinges,  and 

Yon  bench  is  built  so  high,  to  sit — will  be  to  stand. 

A  roof  is  weighed  with  several  cords  of  wood; 

The  shingles  fastened  down  without  a  nail, 
Through  which  the  storms  occasionally  intrude, 

And  save  the  lugging  water  in  a  pail, 
To  wash  the  floor,  which  is  by  no  means  tight, — 
The  windows  have  no  glass  to  dim  the  light 


gg  A.    PEEP    THROUGH    THE     BACKWOODS. 

To  make  these  airy  openings  water  proof, 
Long  boards  on  hinges  of  sole  leather  play; 

The  lizards  walk  the  rafters,  nor  aloof 
Big  spiders  stand,  almost  as  big  as  they; 

The  mice,  too,  have  a  race  path  on  the  chinking, 

At  which  the  little  scholars  oft  are  winking. 

The  furniture — a  kitchen  chair — split  bottom — 
Which  answers  Pedagogus  for  a  throne; 

The  benches — wonder  where  the  people  got  'em; 
Unbacked,  they  seem  saw-horses  overgrown; 

A  bucket,  tincup,  and  six  nails  for  hats; 

A  swallow's  nest — now  occupied  by  rats. 

A  county  road  meanders  half  way  round 
The  Seminary  yard;  and  noise  of  cattle, 

The  oaths  of  drivers,  and  the  rumbling  sound 
Of  passing  chariots,  and  the  ox  cart's  rattle, 

Serve  to  relieve  the  tedious  eight  hours'  study — 

But  oftener  to  interrupt  a  body. 

The  inmates  of  this  model  backwoods  college 
Are  twenty  barefoot  youngsters  of  all  sizes; 

Who  give  their  time  by  halves  to  corn  and  knowledge, 
And  leave  their  trundle  beds  ere  Phoebus  rises; 

You  see  them  dropping  in  from  seven  till  nine, 

And  some  who  come  from  far  remain  to  dine. 


A    PEEP    THROUGH    THE     BACKWOODS.  (j 

Their  raiment  is  not,  more  than  they,  of  silk; 

Yet  think  not  that  their  hearts  are  cold  as  pone, 
Nor  yet  their  faces  sour  as  buttermilk, 

Although  their  dinner  pails  nought  else  may  own; 
They  keep,  by  rubbing  them  from  morn  till  night, 
Their  hoes,  their  hearts,  their  heads,  their  honor  bright. 

ILLINOIS,  1839. 


Jl   Sitt   for   a   Snninanj. 


all  the  settlement  the  paths  converge, 
To  one  rich  grove  upon  a  central  spot, 
Through  which  the  teamsters  ne'er  the  oxen  urge, 

In  which  the  feathered  songster  ne'er  is  shot; 
No  girdled  trees  decay,  no  lofty  oak 
Rebellows  to  the  woodman's  sturdy  stroke. 

But  there  sweet  quiet  breathes  among  the  trees, 
That  whisper  to  the  zephyrs  as  they  fly; 

And  he  whose  broken  spirit  inly  grieves, 

There  nurses  pensive  dreams  his  tears  that  dry; 

There  meditation  finds  a  cheerful  home, 

Devotion  gazes  on  the  azure  dome. 

The  plain  swells  gently  to  the  centre,  where 
A  modest  building  rears  a  lofty  spire ; 

Its  form  is  full,  and  its  complexion  fair; 
Its  front  door  faces  Phoebus'  earliest  fire; 

The  short  side  ranges  with  the  northern  star, 

And  Phoebus  mounted  on  his  noonday  car. 


A    SITE    FOR    A    SEMINARY.  71 

Around  the  roof  extends  a  walk,  with  seats; 

And  from  its  elevation  one  may  see 
A  boundless  prairie  country,  with  its  streets. 

Its  charming  groves,  each  like  one  spreading  tree; 
Its  painted  mansions,  and  its  sea  of  flowers, 
The  sport  of  breezes  thro'  the  summer  hours. 

While  on  the  north  a  snow  capped  mountain  gleam?, 
A  rich  cloud  hanging  from  the  heavens  to  earth; 

Hill  after  hill  declining  from  it,  seems 

The  staircase  to  the  halls  of  heavenly  mirth; 

"With  beauteous  swells  abounding,  and  with  groves, 

O'er  which  the  eye  enkindles  as  it  roves. 

And  on  the  east  is  seen  a  lovely  lake, 
That  every  morn  is  plated  o'er  with  gold; 

Whose  stillness  no  in  trading  tempests  break; 
A  mirror  for  the  sky,  in  which  are  told 

The  stories  of  the  stars  and  sun  and  moon, 

Varying  their  loveliness  from  night  to  noon. 

While  on  the  south,  a  broad  meandering  river 
Sweeps  off  an  hundred  steamers  to  the  sea; 

Winding  in  graceful  majesty  forever, 
Like  Time  in  chase  of  vast  Eternity; 

And  their  hoarse  thunder,  softened  thro'  the  wood, 

Is  liko  a  low  wind  speaking  to  the  solitude. 


72  A    SITE     FOR    A    SEMINARY. 

Afar  is  seen  a  city,  whose  rich  hum 

Floats  on  the  wings  of  the  south-western  gale; 
And  Nature  in  her  noonday  slumbers  dumb, 

Smiles  as  if  hearing  some  sweet  spirit's  tale; 
The  stream  winds  round  the  plains  so  neatly  drest, 
As  if  it  clasped  the  city  to  its  breast. 

But  when  the  eye  is  tired  of  far  off  views, 
It  rests  with  calm  content  on  scenes  at  home; 

The  armies  of  young  corn,  all  bright  with  dews; 
The  giant  oaks,  where  rich  voiced  singers  come 

On  morning  colored  wings  to  chant  their  joys, 

Whose  merry  sports  no  fowler  e'er  annoys. 

Around  extends  a  yard  of  lovely  green, 
Fenced  in  by  double  rows  of  locust  trees; 

Where,  as  the  Sun's  fast  shortening  shade  is  seen, 
The  children  play;  their  minds  and  hearts  at  ease; 

Their  faces  flushed  with  warm  and  cheerful  blood; 

Their  joyous  laugh  long  ringing  thro'  the  wood. 

Behold  that  slender  form  instinct  with  mirth, 
Now  bent  to  aim,  and  now  to  shun  a  stroke; 

Then  straightened  up  to  pride,  as  if  his  worth 
Were  doubted,  or  his  word — he  never  broke; 

Suddenly  fired  against  his  dearest  friend, 

But  softened  by  a  look  to  former  bend. 


A    SITE     FOR    A    SEMINARY.  73 

Then  mark  that  sweet  blue  eye,  those  saffron  locks — 
A  speck  of  heaven  amid  the  golden  clouds; 

How  gay  in  yonder  vine  hung  chair  she  rocks ! 
While  round  her  hear  the  rich  tones  growing  loud; 

The  songs,  that  speak  the  spirit's  reckless  glee, 

Are  measured  by  the  pend'lum  swinging  from  the  tree. 

But  who  is  that  fast  striding  up  the  path, 

Marking  the  new  born  flowers,  the  new  tuned  birds? 

Whose  face  and  eye  are  apt  for  smile  or  wrath; 
Sweetness  and  strength  are  mingled  in  his  words; 

He  waives  his  hand,  and  bows,  and  bids  good  morn, 

While  all  to  him  and  to  the  schoolhouse  turn. 

And  there  he  rales  a  little  realm  of  thought, 
The  faithful  gardener  of  life's  opening  flowers; 

He  gains  a  glory,  glory  knoweth  not, 

Touching  the  spring  that  moves  all  human  powers; 

A  world  of  love  is  gathered  in  that  room; 

Is  he  not  happy  in  his  heart  built  home? 

1839. 


fiff. 


is  a  bud  of  early  growth, 
And  Death  is  winter's  latest  frost; 
How  oft  the  bud  is  nipped  before 

'Tis  known  how  sweet  a  flower  is  lost! 

Life  is  the  Morning  Glory;  pure 

And  white  it  meets  the  earliest  Sun; 

But  ere  he  gains  the  zenith,  lo ! 
The  glory  of  the  flower  is  gone. 

Life  is  the  Althea;  long  it  bears 

The  frosts  of  autumn,  keen  and  chilly 

When  lovelier  colors  all  are  fled; 
But  age  itself  at  last  will  kill. 

Life  is  the  Evening  Beauty;  bright 
In  sunset  hues  it  opes  and  dies; 

As  at  the  eleventh  hour,  a  soul 
Awakes  in  time  to  reach  the  skies. 

1839. 


fttrratnre. 


$lj?  miserable 's  the  modern  true  sublime, 

And  reckless  vice  the  shortest  way  to  reach  it; 

Plunge  into  ruin,  you  can  plunge  in  rhyme; 
Learn  by  experience,  and  you  can  teach  it; 

Poet  of  passion,  you  will  popular  be, 

Since  men  are  wretched,  and  want  company. 

Some  writers  with  the  powers  of  good  and  evil 
Claim  like  acquaintance;  they  are  cicerones, 

Ready  to  introduce  to  God  or  devil; 

They  make  but  slight  distinction  'tween  the  thrones; 

Their  hobby  is  effect,  and  so  you  are 

Their  followers,  will  lead  you — do  n't  care  where. 

While  others  gather  flowers  from  every  land, 
And  for  the  richest  jewels  search  the  sea; 

For  golden  dust  sift  History's  moving  sand, 
To  deck  their  goddess,  sensuality; 

On  worthless  objects  ruin  mental  worth, 

And  if  they  could,  would  turn  heaven  into  earth. 


FASHIONABLE  LITERATURE. 

To  Virtue  pay  a  compliment  to-day, 

And  then  to  Vice  a  neater  one  to-morrow; 

To  all  the  meaner  passions  make  a  bow, 

And  whine  the  rest  of  life  in  reckless  sorrow; 

Or  build,  like  Egypt,  a  most  splendid  pile, 

For  what?  a  temple  to  a  crocodile. 

Again  our  criticism  is  sometimes  this — 
Talent  was  only  given  to  be  displayed; 

Tis  not  the  crime  to  aim  wrong,  but  to  miss; 
No  matter  what  you  do  to  help  your  trade; 

The  end  is  chaff,  when  ripened  well  the  means — 

The  end  is  but  the  pod  to  hold  the  beans. 

Rich  men  make  great  expenditures,  and  shave 
The  poor,  not  for  their  own,  or  others'  good; 

But  just  to  show  the  world  how  much  they  have, 
(Since  cash  or  no  cash  makes  refined  or  rude;) 

So  geniuses  may  cut  all  Nature's  rules, 

To  show  that  they  can  handle  fine  edged  tools. 

Some  clever  soul  a  knowledge  of  the  world 
Will  give  you,  if  you  only  buy  his  book; 

But  erelong  in  his  fancy  chariot  whirled 

From  scene  to  scene,  for  something  else  you  look; 

Perchance  you  find — too  late — his  trade  to  be 

To  lead  you  into  bad  society. 


FASHIONABLE  LITERATURE.  77 

Yon  novelist  shows  how  pretty  a  thing  is  vice, 

And  that  a  rascal  is  a  right  fine  fellow ; 
That  knowledge  should  be  had  at  any  price; 

That  one  may  be  devotional  and  mellow; 
Incense  to  heaven  he  sometimes  offereth, 
But  even  then  you  smell  a  drunkard's  breath. 

We  wish  well  to  our  country,  but  such  lore 

For  hope  is  far  from  palatable  food; 
And  yet  a  time  is  coming,  when  no  more 

The  darkness  shall  be  light,  or  evil  good ; 
When  Truth  and  Right  become  sublimity, 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  man  is  truly  free. 


1839. 


€lj£  West  is  red, 

The  river  is  flame, 
Like  the  mind  that  is  wed 

To  the  light  of  Fame; 

The  Day,  like  the  saint  just  ripe  for  the  skies, 
Gives  the  Earth  one  heavenly  smile  and  dies. 

And  lo  the  hill 

Hath  a  golden  hue! 
And  the  fairies  fill 

The  flowers  with  dew; 
And  now  let  the  heart  to  its  Maker  given, 
Look  up  till  the  eye  hath  a  tinge  of  heaven. 

The  stars  are  around 
The  pensive  moon; 
And  the  far  off  sound 

Of  the  spheres  in  tune, 
Comes  over  the  heart  like  a  voice  of  love, 
To  tell  that  the  Earth  has  a  Friend  above! 


/m&ont. 


lark!  in  the  vale  a  sweet  voice, 
Bids  the  hill  and  the  vale  rejoice, 
And  the  blast  has  hushed  its  noise, 
And  the  cataract  roar  falls  dead  on  the  ear, 
And  the  rocks  of  the  mount  hang  out  to  hear; 
The  tyrant  is  pale, 
For  the  breeze  tells  the  tale, 
As  sings  the  bold  spirit  that  ne'er  bent  the  knee, 
"I  am  free." 

A  shout  on  the  angry  sea! 
Strikes  not  the  flag  of  the  free, 
Though  the  foe  the  stronger  be; 

There 's  a  flash  from  the  sky,  and  a  flash  from  the  gun. 
And  their  thunderings  mingle  into  one; 
The  lightning's  ire 
To  the  foe  sets  fire. 

While  the  free  ships  ^hout,  as  they  sink  in  the  sea, 
"We  are  free!" 


80  FREEDOM. 

On  the  verge  of  creation,  a  star 
Unbinds  the  ray  that  afar 
Rides  forth  on  the  lightning  car; 
And  it  glances  quick  on  the  passing  worlds, 
Bidding  the  universe  read  as  it  whirls, 
What  it  doth  write 
On  the  tablet  of  night, 
And  the  sky  reflects  to  the  mirror  sea, 
"I  am  free." 

Hark!  hark!  the  chains  are  breaking, 
And  a  trampled  race  is  waking, 
And  the  old  Blue  Ridge  is  shaking 
"With  a  chorus  thrown  back  from  the  walls  of  the  sky, 
Till  the  blessed  ones  pause  in  their  song  on  high; 
Our  country  has  spoken, 
And  the  chains  are  broken, 
And  millions  are  singing,  half  mad  with  glee, 
"We  are  free!" 

1841. 


f&f    ^imitation. 


[At  the  request  of  Edward  Postlethwayt  Page,  the  High  Priest  of  Modern  Astrol 
ogers,  the  author  wrote  a  few  stanzas  with  the  above  title,  which  the  High  Priest  recited 
at  his  temple  as  part  of  the  service.  They  are  not  folly  recollected,  but  were  something 
like  the  following.] 


,  come  to  the  Temple  with  gladness  and  wonder, 
And  see  a  Pegasus,  his  neck  clothed  with  thunder; 
On  his  back  sits  the  wisdom  of  every  age ; 
He  comes  to  salute  you,  Time -conquering  Page. 

Come,  come  to  the  Temple  of  Wisdom  with  mind, 
From  the  grossness  of  earth's  double  darkness  refined; 
Forget,  for  a  season,  political  rage, 
And  take  a  short  ride  to  the  North  star  with  Page. 

He  will  take  you  far  up  in  Thought's  ample  balloon, 
Till  you  hang  up  your  hat  on  the  horns  of  the  moon; 
While  you  hear  the  deep  tones  of  the  seer  and  the  sage, 
And  Mercury  and  Mars  give  nine  cheers  for  Page. 


11 


82 


THE    INVITATION. 


He  will  charter  a  comet,  and  then  he  will  run 
A  new  opposition  fast  line  to  the  Sun; 
Fare,  gratis — then  jump  in  at  once — I  '11  engage, 
Your  head  will  be  steady,  while  riding  with  Page. 

He  will  yoke  up  the  bears  in  a  lumbering  team, 
And  haul  to  the  Dogstar  the  Poles  for  ice  cream; 
He  will  harness  the  Dragon  and  Wolf  in  the  stage, 
Through  the  Universe  running  the  mail  line  of  Page. 

He  will  take  out  the  zigzag  from  Lightning's  red  line, 
And  compel  e'en  the  Thunder  to  sing  Auld  Lang  Syne; 
The  fiery  temper  of  Storm  will  assuage, 
And  teach  him  the  mild,  graceful  manners  of  Page. 

The  Militia  he  '11  place  under  Grand  Marshal  Mars, 
And  to  general  muster  will  call  out  the  stars; 
'Gainst  Bigotry  then  the  battle  will  wage, 
Till  Victory  dances  a  hornpipe  for  Page. 

He  will  make  a  great  wedding  between  Thought  and  Love, 
And  invite  all  the  first  constellations  above; 
The  ring  shall  be  Saturn's,  the  prayer  book  the  Praj — 
Anatha  Yuga,  and  the  Priest  the  great  Page. 

From  the  Milky-way's  depths  with  the  Dipper  he  '11  draw 
The  most  glorious  banquet  Creation  e'er  saw; 
Then  come,  see  his  Pegasus  bear  the  great  Sage, 
And  all  o'er  the  Universe  canter  with  Page ! 


9  lODB  the  morn,  the  ruddy  morn, 

When  first  she  leaps  from  yonder  East, 

And  bids  her  herald  wind  his  horn, 
To  wake  from  slumber  man  and  beast; 

For  on  the  Day's  returning  youth, 

Is  deeply  graved  immortal  Truth. 

I  love  the  noon,  the  dazzling  noon, 
When  Nature  lies  in  quiet  wonder; 

And  hurried  to  his  height  so  soon, 
Yon  orb  has  rent  the  day  asunder; 

It  images  man's  ripened  breath, 

Alike  removed  from  birth  and  death. 

I  love  the  evening — she  receives 
The  hues  which  Day  has  left  behind; 

A  robe  of  peerless  beauty  weaves, 
As  if  to  clothe  the  deathless  mind; 

The  graves  of  Day's  departed  hours 

She  richly  strews  with  starry  flowers. 


STANZAS. 

I  love  the  night,  the  dark,  dark  night, 
For  then  I  seek  the  spirit's  home; 

The  inner  world  grows  clear  and  bright; 
And  from  the  spirit  mansions  come 

Sweet  voices,  melting  on  my  ear — 

They  tell  me  that  my  God  is  near. 

1841. 


Jl    $)att)it   in   Diittfr. 


4KJIB  moon  is  dying  in  the  West, 
A  few  bright  stars  are  lingering  still, 

The  night  wind  slowly  lulls  to  rest, 
The  dawn  is  creeping  o'er  the  hill. 

A  bridge  of  purple  cloud  is  thrown 
Across  the  sky  from  peak  to  peak; 

And  o'er  its  centre  shines  alone 
A  star  of  aspect  mild  and  meek. 

And  o'er  the  hillock,  where  the  Day 
Has  bid  the  wood  no  more  be  hush, 

Light  clouds  are  hovering,  gilt  with  ray, 
That  seems  the  hue  of  angel's  blush. 

The  rosy  gleam  spreads  o'er  the  sky, 
It  paints  the  zenith  like  the  even; 
Those  smiles  of  love,  how  fast  they  fly 
All  o'er  the  fair  round  face  of  heaven! 


A     DAWN     IN    WINTER. 

Along  the  horizon,  ranks  of  trees, 
Yon  hills  lift  up  to  fringe  the  blue, 

Seem,  in  their  frost-knit  draperies, 
The  far  off  Beautiful  and  True. 

Beneath  the  snowy  earth  and  sky, 
How  dark  they  stood  but  yesternight; 

Now  blossoming,  to  every  eye 
They  seem  a  wilderness  of  light. 

But  lo!  the  morn  streams  o'er  the  plain, 

As  if  the  bridal  of  the  Skies 
And  Earth  had  won  from  heaven  again, 

The  long  lost  flowers  of  paradise. 

Oh  Winter!  glorious  is  the  scene 

Thou  spread'st  o'er  Vegetation's  tomb; 

As  if  some  landscape  doffed  its  green, 
And  borrowed  from  the  stars  their  bloom! 

So  when  life's  luxuries  are  dead, 

And  adverse  winds  its  comforts  freeze, 

The  Virtues  o'er  the  heart  can  shed 
The  blossoms  of  Hesperides. 


1843. 


Sttnt. 


(D  UlIjBn  in  this  world  could  I  find  a  retreat, 
More  accordant  with  pleasure  than  mine, 

On  the  verge  of  my  own  native  village  so  sweet, 
On  the  hill  side  enclasped  by  the  vine. 

Tho'  steep  the  ascent,  so  pure  is  the  air, 

It  thrills  you  with  joy  as  you  rise; 
The  azure  above  so  invitingly  fair, 

You  seem  to  ascend  to  the  skies. 

The  rills  as  they  dance  on  their  way  to  the  vale, 

Look  up  in  your  face  with  a  smile; 
And  the  leaves,  as  they  spread  to  the  breezes  their  sail, 

Your  heart  with  their  music  beguile. 

And  here  would  I  stand  and  look  out  on  the  world, 

As  if  it  were  gathered  all  there; 
May  the  banner  of  Truth  and  Peace  widely  unfurled, 

Make  a  home  for  my  heart  every  where. 

1846. 


West!  the  West!  the  sunset  clime, 
The  last,  the  loveliest  path  of  Time; 
Where  Glory  spreads  his  loftiest  flight, 
Ere  Fate  shall  bid  the  world  good  night, 
And  Spirit  rises  high  and  higher, 
Above  the  old  earth's  funeral  pyre ! 

The  West!  the  West!  the  favored  East 
Has  spread  for  thee  her  treasured  feast; 
Her  commerce  brings  that  science  here, 
Which  cost  a  dozen  centuries  dear; 
And  Liberty,  that  fled  her  shore, 
Rises  on  thee  to  set  no  more ! 

The  West!  the  West!  where  is  the  West? 

'Twas  here — 'tis  on  the  prairie's  breast; 

It  follows  the  declining  Sun 

Along  the  banks  of  Oregon; 

It  will  be  where  he  lays  his  pillow 

Upon  the  wide  Pacific's  billow. 


THE     WEST. 

The  West!  the  West!  and  o'er  the  sea, 
Fast  as  the  Sun  the  shadows  flee; 
Religion,  Learning,  Freedom  high, 
Their  mantles  drop  while  passing  by; 
On  China's  towers  their  flag  is  gleaming, 
And  wakes  whole  empires  from  their  dreaming. 

The  West!  the  West!  still  onward  west; 
And  now  the  Earth  indeed  is  blest; 
Lo!  here  the  spot  where  Eden  stood, 
And  there  where  Jesus  shed  his  blood! 
The  morning  star  above  suspended! 
The  East  and  West  together  blended! 

CINCINNATI,  1847. 


DttmUitt). 


•C0JJQ  is  the  humble?     Is  it  he 

That  yields  to  man,  but  dares  his  God? 
A  slave  to  slaves  consents  to  be, 

But  slights  his  mighty  Master's  rod? 
Or  he  who  knows  himself  a  man, 
And  begs  to  give,  of  Him  who  can? 

Who  is  the  humble?     Is  it  he 

That  stoops  from  Duty's  path  to  creep, 
Or  clips  the  wing,  or  bends  the  knee, 

That  he  may  have  a  chance  to  sleep? 
Or  he  whose  thoughts,  once  set  on  fire 
By  love,  to  glorious  deeds  aspire? 

Who  is  the  humble?     Is  it  he 

That  droops  beneath  a  weight  of  pride; 
Well  pleased  that  men  in  him  should  see 

Such  lowliness  and  meek  outside? 
Or  is  it  he  whose  sunlit  soul, 
Lightened  of  self,  can  reach  its  goal? 


HUMILITY.  91 

Who  is  the  humble?     Is  it  he 

That  makes  humility  a  blind? 
Who  fawns  to  all  the  powers  that  be, 

That  he  the  way  to  power  may  find? 
Or  is  it  he  whose  active  zeal 
Prefers  to  his,  another's  weal? 

Humility — it  is  the  sky — 

The  simple  azure  of  the  soul; 
The  giving  up  of  little  I, 

To  share  Creation's  boundless  whole; 
The  quiet  eye,  so  clear,  so  bright, 
That  yields  itself  to  truth  and  light. 

1848. 


$t)inn 


€jf01l  awful  form,  that  risest  far, 

Far  up  into  the  darkening  sky, 
Until  beneath  yon  glittering  star, 

Thou  seenTst  an  iceberg  hung  on  high; 
Oh  say  if  saints  acclimed  in  heaven, 

E'er  meet,  on  thee,  when  skies  are  fair, 
Earth's  excellent,  whose  souls  are  riven, 

One  hour,  from  clay  and  chaos  there? 

Far,  far  above  the  realms  of  dew, 

Upon  the  earth  thou  lookest  down; 
And  on  thy  shoulder  rests  the  blue, 

Cemented  round  thy  dazzling  crown. 
So  near  the  stars  thou  seem'st  to  dwell, 

Did  not  thy  base  reveal  the  birth 
Of  these  wild  flowers,  't  were  hard  to  tell 

If  thou  wert  part  of  heaven  or  earth. 


HYMN    BENEATH    DAWALAGER1.  93 

Thou  Pyramid  of  Nature's  build, 

That  sham'st  the  loftiest  piles  of  man; 
With  Nature's  secrets  thou  art  filled, 

Let  Time  reveal  them  if  he  can. 
No  beast -god  lurks  within  thy  halls; 

No  mummied  monarch  sleeps  in  thee; 
But  Chemist  Nature,  'neath  thy  walls, 

Works  ever  undisturbed  and  free. 

The  Himmalehs!  a  temple  reared 

By  God  himself,  o'er  Asia's  plain; 
And  thou  its  spire — and  Asia  feared 

His  name  of  yore — Oh!  when  again? 
Amid  yon  lesser  peaks  't  is  thine 

To  rise,  the  loftiest  minaret; 
Still  on  those  hundred  millions  shine — 

Thy  Maker  they  shall  worship  yet. 

Thy  cone  doth  pierce  the  firmament, 

As  if  its  azure  to  adorn 
With  some  archangel's  rainbow  tent, 

Upon  thy  summit  pitched  at  morn. 
Oh  hadst  thou  but  a  listening  ear, 

When  gather  Heavenly  Councils  round, 
Perhaps  the  secret  thou  might'st  hear. 

When  the  last  awful  trump  shall  sound. 


HYMN     BENEATH    DAWALAGERI. 

I  gaze  until  my  eyesight  fails — 

Although  thy  rocky  base  is  broad, 
Thy  summit  seems  a  cloud,  that  sails 

And  mounts  toward  the  throne  of  God. 
Oh  tell  me,  if  from  yonder  star, 

That  through  thee  seems  to  shoot  its  ray, 
Thou  hearest  tones,  that  come  afar 

From  spheres  lit  up  by  endless  day? 

Thou  loftiest  spot  of  Earth,  no  trace 

Has  mortal  left  upon  thy  height; 
Art  thou  a  way-side  resting  place 

For  yon  pure  messengers  of  light? 
Could  I  be  there,  when  Earth  and  Sky 

Shower  all  their  glories  on  thy  even, 
Say,  could  I  see  those  angels  fly 

Adown  the  soul's  highway  to  heaven? 

In  vain  I  gaze  and  long — thy  tower, 

Though  dazzling  as  the  peaks  of  fame, 
Is  cold  as  highest  height  of  power, 

That  freezes  all  but  heaven  born  flame. 
Thou  shalt.  when  Man  has  dropt  the  clod, 

The  world's  observatory  be; 
Life-kindled  at  the  throne  of  God, 

He  then  shall  melt  his  path  to  thee. 

CINCINNATI.  1849. 


®n  tfte  Iffltl)  of  JMrs.  /runccs 


3  S  (I  III  her,  when  her  eye  was  lit  with  youth, 

Deep  thoughts  and  pure  were  written  on  her  brow; 
Her  features  were  the  beautiful  of  truth; 

Her  kind  and  silvery  voice,  I  hear  it  now; 

Then  to  her  charms  did  many  a  true  heart  bow; 
In  her,  by  all  observed,  beloved,  admired, 

How  generously  Nature  can  endow, 
We  clearly  saw;  in  her  we  saw  attired 
The  grace  of  Goodness,  and  a  Conscience  all  inspired. 

I  saw  her,  when  a  wife;  she  made  her  home 
First  happy  for  her  husband,  then  her  friends; 

Toward  the  house  of  God  she  loved  to  roam, 
Nor  elsewhere,  save  for  sympathy  that  lends 
Beauty  to  life,  or  charity  that  spends 

The  heart  most  freely  both  for  joy  and  pain; 

While  those  two  blossoms  in  whom  Nature  blends 

The  sire  and  mother,  it  was  hers  to  train 
That  they  might  ripen  here,  and  bloom  in  heaven  again. 


96        ON     THE     DEATH    OF    MRS.     FRANCES    PRICE. 

I  saw  her,  when  the  Pestilence  was  stealing 
So  noiselessly  among  us.     It  was  morn, 

And  on  her  cheek  was  health  and  buoyant  feeling. 
Light  was  his  footstep,  when  he  came  to  warn — 
But  anxious  with  her  duties  to  adorn 

The  hours,  she  toiled  till  the  destroyer  threw 
His  poison  in  her  blood.     It  left  forlorn 

Her  icing  heart — she  sunk  away— till  flew 
Speech,  consciousness  and  life,  ere  day  was  made  anew. 

I  saw  her  spirit  going  to  its  God! 

Her  track  was,  to  my  mind's  eye,  bright  and  clear. 
Then  weep  not  bitter  tears  upon  her  sod, 

Husband,  and  little  ones,  and  friends  so  dear, 

To  her  the  glorified;  she  still  is  here, 
In  all  but  flesh  and  blood;  and  yet  have  ye 

A  wife,  a  mother,  and  a  friend,  so  near 
The  throne !  Behold  her  when  ye  bend  the  knee ! 
She  waits  at  heaven's  door,  till  ye  can  come  and  see ! 

CINCINNATI,  1850. 


(DID    Conn    Clock. 


old  Town  Clock- 
As  if  beating  on  a  rock, 
See  him  delve, 
Striking  Twelve! 

While  we  hear  a  gentle  tread, 
As  of  watchers  round  the  bed 
Of  the  Day  that  "lies  a  dying"  'neath  the  stars  weeping 

there ; 

And  a  calm,  deep  and  dead, 
Fills  the  air. 

The  old  Town  Clock, 
Like  a  distant  thundershock, 
Heard  and  gone, 
Striking  One! 

Hark!  it  seems  a  single  gun, 
Just  fired  to  welcome  on 
The  slow  and  silent  coming  of  the  new  born  infant  Day; 

While  we  see  the  dead  and  gone 
Borne  away. 
13 


98 


THE     OLD    TOWN    CLOCK. 


The  old  Town  Clock, 
Father  Time's  knock,  knock — 
Perchance  he  knocks  for  you, 
Rudely  striking  One,  Two! 
Then  would  you  find  a  charm 
Against  impending  harm, 
From  the  scythe  he  has  been  whetting,  for  whom,  ah!  who 

can  tell? 

If  you  lean  on  Mercy's  arm, 
All  is  well. 

The  old  Town  clock- 
Is  he  breaking  through  a  lock, 
In  search  of  guilty  me, 
Striking  One,  Two,  Three,— 
That  bailiff  of  the  skies? 
Coming  on  me  by  surprise, 
Doth  he  summon  me  to  answer  before  the  only  True, 

While  his  stern  and  piercing  eyes 
Thrill  me  through? 

The  old  Town  Clock- 
As  if  Justice  o'er  the  block, 
Where  the  axe  waits  its  banquet  of  gore, 
Struck  the  signal,  One,  Two,  Three,  Four! 
Lo!  I  wake  as  from  a  dream, 
And  the  lights  of  heaven  seem 
Hung  around  a  lofty  hall  from  the  river  to  the  hill, 

And  amid  the  City's  gleam, 
All  is  still! 


THE    OLD    TOWN    CLOCK.  QQ 

Now  the  old  Town  Clock, 
As  if  himself  to  mock, 
The  voices  of  the  hours  shall  revive, 
Striking  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five! 
Like  a  rocky  hollow,  peals 
With  the  rumbling  of  the  wheels, 
The  stone  shod  street,  then  away  flies  the  sound; 

And  the  footstep  steals 
O'er  the  ground. 

List!  the  old  Town  Clock, 
Above  the  motley  flock, 

Whose  rattle,  rumble,  tramp  and  murmur  intermix, 
Faintly  striking  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  Six; 
While  the  Sun  is  seen  to  rise 
With  the  red  in  his  eyes, 
And  he  drops  his  golden  card  at  the  Town  Clock's  door, 

As  the  solemn  voice  dies 
Mid  the  roar. 

CINCINNATI,  1850. 


(£)Jj  could  we  hear  each  voice  that  soars  above, 

In  prayer  or  praise,  from  church,  or  cot,  or  wood; 
And  mark  each  saintly  look,  engraved  by  Love 
On  count'nances  with  tears  of  joy  bedewed; 
Could  we,  this  moment,  in  a  million  eyes, 
Behold  a  million  images  of  Jesus  rise; 

And  call  each  voice,  each  cheek,  each  eye,  each  heart, 

A  father's,  mother's,  sister's,  or  a  brother's; 
What  ecstacies  of  Gratitude  would  start 

From  these  o'er  burdened  bosoms!     Every  other's 
Best  gifts  would  be  the  heir-looms  of  each  soul, 
(Tho'  not  possessed  entire,  till  clay  has  turned  to  coal.) 

Then  wrought  into  each  other's  being,  we 

Would  die  to  self,  and  live  to  wage  the  strife, 
Who  should,  by  serving  most,  become  most  free. 

Did  we  but  die  indeed,  oh  what  were  life ! 
Did  we  but  live  indeed,  oh  what  were  death ! 
Who  would  not,  then,  exchange  for  Heaven  a  single  breath? 

SPRINGFIELD,  1S50. 


Bummer    |at)    in   t|K 


iKIjE  leaves  are  humming  a  sweet  tune.     They  dance, 

As  if  to  cheer  the  grave  old  oaks.     The  thrush 

Is  glancing  through  the  boughs  so  tremblingly! 

You  feel  kind  Nature  drawing  out  your  soul 

Towards  all  her  feeblest  children.     Here  a  stream 

Rolls  by  majestic,  talking  to  himself 

Of  the  great  Ocean  he  is  soon  to  swell; 

And  finds  an  echo  in  your  heart,  for  there 

Doth  Feeling  roll  its  river  on  to  Bliss. 

Now  Fancy  offers  Hope  a  passage  free. 

Now  Love  sits  on  the  soul  like  softened  light. 

Now  thought  seems  all  enchantment,  strangely  cairn — 

Like  waters  seemingly  at  rest,  because 

Their  sky-reflecting  channel  is  so  smooth. 

So  let  us  often  glide  away  from  care, 

And  bathe  our  spirits  in  the  quiet  grove. 

And  then  let  Memory,  like  a  genial  friend, 

Uncalled  for,  come,  and  seat  her  by  us  here. 

Our  happy  souls  shall  bid  her  welcome,  for 

She  visits  this  sweet  spot  with  none  but  Peace. 

CINCINNATI,  1850. 


YB   1 3750 


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